


The Dogs of Empire

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Politics, Half-Elves, Illegitimacy, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 14:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Fereldans are a puzzle. As a people, they are one bad day away from reverting to barbarism. They repelled invasions from Tevinter during the height of the Imperium with nothing but dogs and their own obstinate disposition. They are the coarse, wilful, dirty, disorganized people who somehow gave rise to our prophet, ushered in an era of enlightenment, and toppled the greatest empire in history." Celene Valmont to her Ambassador to Ferelden</p><p>Once, the Alamarri were one people until they divided into three tribes: the Avvar, who took to the mountains; the Chasind, who were driven into the swamps; and the Clayne, who became the heart of the modern nation of Ferelden. Once, they were united and shook Thedas to its core. Once, they held the fate of the world in their hands.</p><p>In the shadow of the Fifth Blight, that time has come again. The Augur, the Warden and the King will alter the political fabric of Thedas forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dogs of Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death and violence, including that of minors, fantastic racism, mentions of torture, classism and misogyny. Massively AU Dragon Age because why the hell not? Yes, this involves AU versions of Mara Cousland and Avvar!Alistair from ‘Hymns Between Sea and Sky’.

“I can’t believe you let an elf-blooded bastard sit at the high table.”

            Rendon Howe’s tone dripped disdain, as it always did, when Morna reached across for the salt cellar because Oren was too short to hand it to her. The Arl of Amaranthine was a bastard by nature, if not name, and yet _he_ sat at Uncle Bryce’s right hand with Fergus bumped down one seat, which put Warden-Constable Brytta Brosca at the foot of the table. As the lowest ranking noble present, _she_ sat at the other foot with Oren, Oriana and Aunt Eleanor towards the centre in ascending order of importance. It made for a bit of a lopsided arrangement – the inharmonious distribution of male and female guests would drive an Orlesian or Antivan master of ceremonies up the wall – but it worked well enough for tonight. Tomorrow the menfolk would be gone and the day after that, the dwarven woman would follow.

            “As the Bann of Whitebridge and a voting member of the Landsmeet, Morna Cousland has the right to a place at the high table,” Uncle Bryce reminded Howe calmly before she could open her mouth and say something awkward. “There is no law against the elf-blooded being treated the same as any other acknowledged bastard of Uasal Ard blood.”

            She hid her grin behind a veil of ash-blonde hair as she shook salt on her and Oren’s food. The Couslands took blood very seriously – the bannorn she held, Whitebridge, would have been her father Riordan’s if he hadn’t gone to the Wardens shortly before the Orlesians were thrown out – and Uncle Bryce would tolerate no insult to a member of his family, even from a valued vassal like Howe.

            “Besides,” Bryce Cousland continued, holding out his tankard to be refilled by Dairren Loren, his newest squire. “There are some things that can only be trusted to family, old friend. With a Blight upon us, I want the line of succession to be clear.”

            “I’m not so certain it’s a Blight,” Howe observed, cutting his meat into little chunks.

            “Trust me, it’s a Blight,” Brytta informed him flatly. “You’d think I’d be hauling ass to the Korcari Wilds if it wasn’t?”

            Morna lost her good humour, nudging Oren’s leg to remind him to be quiet. Both of them had trouble remembering their manners, though for far different reasons, so Uncle Bryce made sure _she_ behaved by putting her in charge of her cousin at mealtimes.

            “I never understand why Wardens do what they do,” Howe retorted silkily.

            “That’s because it requires the ability to think beyond yourself,” Brytta observed.

            “Enough.” Bryce’s tone was pointed, sky-blue eyes flickering between Howe and Brytta. “Rendon, I have heard it’s a Blight from multiple sources and not just Wardens. Warden-Constable, please remember this is a high table, not a tavern table and act accordingly.”

            Brytta’s malachite eyes glittered dangerously until Morna caught her gaze and shook her head subtly. This wasn’t Orzammar where her word – as the sister-in-law to Prince Bhelen Aeducan – was practically law. Rendon Howe ran Ferelden’s military intelligence under Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, another person who mistrusted Wardens, and the Grey didn’t need to make more enemies in the face of a Blight. So the Warden-Constable returned to her meal, breaking the tension.

            The Teyrn threw Morna an approving glance before engaging Howe in a conversation on the conditions of the roads between Highever and Amaranthine, pertinent as the Arl’s troops were significantly delayed, meaning that Fergus would be leaving shortly after Oren’s bedtime. She sighed inwardly, knowing that with their absence she’d be in charge of Castle Cousland for a few weeks while Aunt Eleanor made a tour of the Highever bannorn to make sure they were preparing for winter and a potential Blight, and dug into the beef stew. Once the main family was gone, she’d be instituting light rationing with a focus on storing the harvest in Taint-proof caches for when the land rotted under the darkspawn’s incursion.

            “Don’t worry, Morna,” Oriana assured her in Antivan as she leaned over to wipe some stew from Oren’s face. “I’ll be here to help you handle the social obligations.”

            “Can I just give you a list of people to poison?” Morna asked in the same language. “That counts, doesn’t it?”

            Oriana’s blue-green eyes danced with laughter. “You’re terrible, cousin.”

            “I’m not the one who comes from a place where the noblewomen literally kill people with kindness.”

            “ _This_ from the young woman who swore to name one of her daggers ‘Kindness’ until I advised you otherwise,” Aunt Eleanor chided.

            “It was Father’s idea!” Morna protested.

            “Riordan’s sense of humour is terribly warped at times,” Oriana observed. “I don’t know if it’s because he’s a Warden or because he’s spent so long in Orlais.”

            “We’ve come to the conclusion it’s probably both,” Eleanor told her wryly. “Thankfully, Morna’s sense of humour is only a little strange despite her elven blood.”

            Morna used the trencher the entrée – Highever Blue cheese stuffed into pastries – came in on to sop up the rest of the stew from her bowl. The Couslands had raised her with their name, defended her from the taunts of the other members of the Uasal Ard, given her responsibility and a place in their world. She understood, after a long discussion when she was about Oren’s age, on why her father had left her to be raised with them – a Warden’s duty was to the world, not a single family, and he was out there killing darkspawn so she could live in peace. Whenever he visited, Riordan did his best to show that he loved her by teaching her the rogue’s tricks that kept him alive as the bastard of a chevalier’s bastard on the streets of Orlesian-occupied Highever.

            But none of them ever let her forget that she was elf-blooded. In fact, Fergus had once opined her inability to properly understand and mimic social cues to come from her mother, because no Cousland had ever had such a problem. It hurt when he said that, though she couldn’t deny the possibility.

            Bann of Whitebridge, a little village on the northern edge of Lake Calenhad, a place known for its white Tevinter bridge that never got slick with rain or snow. Bannorn practically ran itself, though Morna spent at least one month out of three there, and happily represented her freeholders at the Landsmeet. She wished she could do more but duties to the Couslands kept her in Highever or Denerim for most of the year. At least elf-blooded and elven churls could get a fair deal there – and the city elves of Highever were permitted to carry the same weapons as churls everywhere else, if not anything longer than a longknife or more powerful than a hunting bow. Some of the Orlesian laws hadn’t yet been taken off the books because it didn’t affect the Uasal Ard.

            It would take most of the Couslands to die before she could even stand as regent for Oren – a fact that terrified her, not because she desired power, but because one bout of the plague could see her accused of murdering her way to control of the teyrnir. Eleanor’s Mac Eanraig relatives on the Storm Coast and Waking Sea could very easily usurp Bryce’s wishes of a Cousland holding regency by simple dint of pointing out she was elf-blooded. Good enough to handle a minor bannorn but Maker forbid she be in charge of a major port like Highever for more than a few weeks.

            All of this ran through her mind during the time it took to finish the main course and the dessert – apple crumble with Antivan raisins and slivers of Orlesian almonds slathered in good brandy custard – to be served. Morna waved off the server, wondering if Brytta’s seething silence was portentous of an explosion tomorrow. The Warden-Constable’s temper and ability to hold grudges was almost as legendary as her ability to take down an ogre with nothing more than a pair of daggers and an unnerving grin.

            “Could you excuse me?” she eventually asked Oriana. “I might take Oren off to settle him down before bed.”

            “Run him through some hand-to-hand lessons,” the Antivan suggested.

            “Will do,” Morna agreed as she rose, tapping on her cousin’s shoulder and making her bow to the rest of the high table. If she left, Brytta could leave and find somewhere to cool her temper.

            Within the half-hour, she and Oren were in old shabby clothing, practicing dirty fighting tricks in the sale. This was the sort of combat that anyone could use, be they warrior – as Oren was expected to become – or rogue like Morna herself. At his age, Oren learned the holds and throws as easily as breathing, knowing that if he were attacked – a sad reality that any child of nobility must face – he could evade his enemy and flee.

            “Aunty Morna?” he asked as they paused for a drink of water, the Chanter calling the seventh hour from noon. “What’s a bastard?”

            “You want the technical meaning or the impolite one?” she asked dryly in return.

            “Both?” His blue-green eyes looked up at her unsurely.

            “Technically, it’s someone whose parents weren’t married, like mine,” she told him quietly. “Impolitely, it’s an insult you’d better not use around the adults _because_ of its technical meaning.”

            “Or in other words, nuglet, your cousin’s a bastard by name and Howe’s a bastard by personality,” Brytta added from the doorway, wearing patched Carta armour and a bright grin.

            She walked in, compact muscle beneath a dwarf woman’s curvy figure, and studied the pair critically. “Your form’s pretty good, Morna. Reckon there might be a couple Warden tricks I could teach you.”

            “Thanks,” Morna answered, raking sweaty ash-blonde hair from her face.

            “Can I learn?” Oren asked eagerly.

            “Sorry, nuglet. You’re not a Warden’s kid the way Morna is.” Brytta’s refusal was firm but kind.

            Her cousin was no fool. “Like Aunty Morna can’t carry a sword because she’s elf-blooded?”

            “Yeah. Stupid law, that. Thankfully, it doesn’t apply to Wardens.” Brytta nodded at the young boy. “Dinner’s done. Go have a bath and say goodbye to your dad, ‘kay? Tomorrow, I’ll tell you how I killed an ogre and turned his skull into a washbasin.”

            “Yes, ma’am!” Oren grinned and gave her a knight’s salute before running out of the salle.

            “Smart kid, lot like my nephew Endrin,” Brytta observed when he was gone. “He’ll realise that banning someone from doing something just because of their ancestry is wrong and will work to change it.”

            Morna fell into a defensive stance. “I’m sorry about the incident at dinner.”

            Brytta made a rude noise between her teeth. “Your uncle beat you to it. He supports us, even if Howe doesn’t, and he knows it’s a Blight. ‘Sides, been told a lot worse at a dinner table than to behave.”

            She rose onto the balls of her feet. “Your dad sends his love and the techniques I’m about to show you. He’d be here himself but organising the Orlesian Wardens to reinforce us at Ostagar is taking time because Thierry du Mont has his head so far up the Empress’ clacker he never sees daylight and forgets Wardens are politically neutral.”

            Morna snickered. And then spent the next hour learning how to kill an armoured man with her bare hands.

…

Oren was sleepy by the time Morna had washed and changed into a lounging robe to join the family gathering in Fergus’ suite of rooms. Tastefully furnished with heavy dark furniture from the days of Queen Fione Theirin and bright Antivan textiles, the three rooms were covered in thick tapestries and carpets because even eight years later, Oriana hadn’t quite gotten used to the chill of Ferelden in winter.

            Fergus, the most easy-going of the Couslands, flashed a grin as she entered the common room. “Brytta working out her temper on you?” he asked wryly.

            Morna touched the edge of her blackened eye gingerly. “No. She was passing on a couple techniques from Father to me. It was… enlightening.”

            “Warden Brytta said I couldn’t learn them because I wasn’t a Warden’s kid,” Oren reported from beside his mother. “Just like Aunty Morna can’t use a sword because her mother was an elf.”

            Fergus’ eyebrow rose above bog-brown eyes, legacy of the Howe blood from his father’s mother. “Oh?”

            “The Warden-Constable has opinions about the Orlesian arming laws still on the books,” Morna said dryly.

            “She thinks it’s stupid,” Oren agreed cheerfully. “So do I. How come Aunty Morna being an elf-blood means she can’t use a sword?”

            “Though to be fair, the one time I picked up a sword, I fell flat on my backside,” Morna said quickly to avoid any more difficult questions. “Still, the Orlesians are pretty awful to elves. So if elves had the right to use swords there, there’d be a lot of dead chevaliers.”

            “Which no one over this side of the Frostbacks would cry too much over,” Fergus noted before looking down at his son. “Sometimes these things take a while, Oren. King Cailan and Queen Anora are going through the laws bit by bit. I reckon by the time you’re a man, Aunty Morna’s kids will be learning to use swords right alongside you.”

            “A Blight might even hasten things,” Morna agreed. “We’ll need every able hand if the darkspawn get too far north.”

            “Things are going well, according to the rumours from Ostagar,” Fergus said. “I’m hoping to be gone for no more than a few months.”

            Oriana’s full mouth pursed. “I’m not sure a Blight will be defeated so easily, love. Antiva still bears the scars of the Fourth.”

            “Antiva wasn’t evacuated until nearly too late,” Fergus countered. “King Cailan and Teyrn Loghain are far smarter than that – and we’ll have the Wardens of Ferelden and Orlais there. You think the archdemon’s going to get past Duncan, Brytta _and_ Uncle Riordan?”

            “No!” Oren declared. “Brytta kills ogres and uses their skulls for washbasins!”

            “Precisely. She’ll be bathing in the archdemon’s skull by summer next year.” Morna realised that Fergus’ voice was too hearty. He was trying to reassure himself as much as his family. “In fact, the archdemon might see those three there and realise he should go back to the Deep Roads where he belongs.”

            “I hope so.” Oriana caught onto the game and lightened her tone.

            “Can I learn how to stab someone while you’re gone?” Oren asked.

            “No,” his parents said in unison.

            “Pick a lock?”

            “No.”

            “Poison someone?”

            “Definitely not.” Oriana rubbed her fair brow and looked at Fergus. “This is your fault.”

            “Mine? I’m not the one from Antiva.” Fergus smiled winningly at his wife, who snorted.

            “I didn’t come down in the last shower, Fergus.”

            “But you did-“ His lewd rejoinder was cut off in a bout of coughing as he recalled that his six-year-old son was in the room. “Ahem. I should go, love. So many darkspawn to kill, so little time.”

            “I hope you’ll wait for us,” Bryce said, his rich voice warm with affection. “This will be the last time we have most of us together in the one place.”

            He and Eleanor entered the room, carrying things. “Fergus, I’m formally handing the Shield of Highever and the Cousland Sword to you. Both have been re-enchanted to protect you against the taint – and bite the darkspawn that much more.”

            Her cousin blinked and accepted the items. Dating from the Black Age, the weapons were forged from silverite, repaired and repainted many times. The Shield had vainly tried to save a Theirin King in battle while the Sword decapitated the chevalier who dishonoured Teyrn William’s aunt by siring a bastard son on her – Morna’s grandfather Ronan, in fact.

            “Father-“

            “Fergus.” Bryce’s words were grave. “It is a Blight. I could die. King Cailan could die. You know what that means.”

            _If Cailan dies without issue, then we’re in line for the Mabari Throne._ The Mac Tirs would fight _that_ tooth and nail.

            “I understand.” Fergus drew himself up proudly. “I won’t fail Ferelden, Father.”

            “I know you won’t.” Bryce smiled warmly at his son before looking to Morna. “I’m sorry about earlier, pup. You know Rendon’s opinions on bastards _and_ elves.”

            “Warden Brytta said that Aunty Morna was a bastard by name and Arl Howe a bastard by nature. What did she mean by that?” Oren piped up.

            Bryce coughed, eyes twinkling. “That she is very wise. But it’s not a good idea to repeat that, Oren, because it’s very rude.”

            Eleanor was biting her bottom lip in amusement. “Warden Brytta’s not very… tactful,” she finally said.

            The Teyrn coughed once more. “We haven’t forgotten you, Morna, and we know that you’ve done a lot for Highever that no one else can do. We commissioned a set of rogue’s armour from someone who makes them for elven Master Crows in Antiva; they arrived with the last letter from Oriana’s brother. That’s why we only had the silverite daggers and recurved bow for your confirmation as Bann of Whitebridge.”

            Morna found herself tearing up as she embraced them both. “Thank you!”

            “I _am_ proud of you,” Bryce assured her gently. “You weather insults worse than anything I get in the Landsmeet and then you turn around to make them look like the idiots they are. You’ve represented Whitebridge better than anyone could have hoped for. And I know that if the worst comes to worst, you will protect and guide Oren as if he were your very own.”

            _Only because if I don’t, the Landsmeet will cheerfully have me removed,_ Morna’s cynical side thought as she nodded and smiled to her uncle.

            “I couldn’t love you any more than if you were my daughter,” Eleanor told her. “Riordan never told us who your mother was but believe me when I say I’m sure she was an extraordinary woman. Your father isn’t one for casual affairs.”

            _No, he isn’t,_ Morna agreed silently as she hugged Eleanor again. _He never got over her._

Maybe that was one of the reasons he rarely visited, aside from his Warden duties. Jader wasn’t _that_ far away from Highever after all.

            “I love you both too. And Oren, Oriana and even Fergus.”

            Her cousin grimaced at her. “I’ll remember that at Satinalia.”

            Morna grinned at him. “I haven’t forgotten the spider in my trinkets box.”

            “That was ten years ago!”

            “And not a whit of remorse you’ve shown for it,” Bryce pointed out.

            “See, Oren gets it from you,” Oriana told her husband.

            “Yay!” Oren cheered.

            Bryce laughed as the Antivan water-clock chimed on the tenth hour past noon. “Fergus, you should get going. Oren, you need to sleep. Morna, we’ll see you early in the morning before we leave.”

            “Good night and Maker speed you,” Morna told Fergus.

            “And you, cousin.”

            It would be the last time they’d all be together.


End file.
